


and Cecil Sits In the Dark

by flowers_and_lavender



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Depression, Family, I literally won't be offended if you don't read this, I'm being really mean to these characters, I'm sorry I know he's annoying, Implied Eldritch Abomination Cecil, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Whump, but we're going to pretend he's not, can we be nice to Steve, i wrote it at 2 am, mostly just vent art, sorry for this, that's why Carlos stays, they deserve better, this is family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowers_and_lavender/pseuds/flowers_and_lavender
Summary: Cecil is depressed. etc etcbasically more of me projecting all of my feelings on characters that don't deserve it. the story isn't mine, just the feelings. let's call it "vaguely based on crap that's happened to me".do. not. read. if this will trigger you -- sh and suicide are important parts of this story. it's honestly not that good, I wrote it in a chocolate fueled frenzy at 2 am, so you won't be missing much if you don't read because it will trigger you.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer, Steve Carlsberg/Abby Palmer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	and Cecil Sits In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Cecil deserves better than this. sorry.  
> this is before Cecil and Carlos start dating (partly because I like to ignore the fact that they're explicitly dating and headcanon them as a queer platonic relationship)
> 
> um. good luck. it's very sad probably

... and Cecil sits, eyes closed, at his desk. the Weather plays, lilting music with a tinge of melancholy to it. The weather has been like that a lot, lately. Of course, it does change; but he notices that he hasn't heard anything cheerful at all in a while. It's mostly songs of the sadder variety, though there has been the occasional angry rock song thrown in among the sad. Cecil doesn't mind the selections. If he could control the Weather consciously, he wouldn't change a thing.

There's no color, inside his head, except for the faint purple glow of the lights in the studio making its way through his eyelids. He's still there, still awake, but he's drifting out of reality, out of touch with his body, with his mind, with time itself. 

It's kind of strange. It's sort of uncomfortable, emotionally, to sit in darkness and float, feeling absolutely hollow. But it hurts less than moving, or thinking, or talking. That's how he feels, most of the time -- hollow. His brain, he knows, is scared or how sad he used to be, so it just turned off emotions all together. It's strange because when most people hear about the thing that's wrong with him (just in general; no one really knows about him, specifically) they generally think of crying and crying. But Cecil hasn't cried in a long time. It's not because he's a man, and it's not a choice -- he used to cry all the time -- but now he just. Can't. It's like he's empty.

He has so much trouble saying, or even thinking, that word: "Depressed." It's what he is, of course he knows that, but somehow it feels like a dirty word. Cecil knows it's stupid, but it just feels wrong. He doesn't call it being depressed at all, just says to himself that it's "not feeling good."

So Cecil sits there in the dark, drifting.

It seems like no time has passed at all, like eternities have passed, when he's aware of a faint knocking or banging coming from in front of him. Opening his eyes slowly, Cecil sees Intern Maureen knocking on the glass from the soundboard, looking annoyed, but also a bit concerned. The Weather has finished playing, and all he hears in his headset is the faint static of radio silence. 

Checking the clock, he sees almost a full minute has passed after the Weather finished, while he was still dissociating. (Or was it derealizing, this time? They are fairly similar, but there is a difference. Oh, well, it doesn't really matter. He's done some research on what's wrong with him -- he is very interested in science, after all, and psychology is, in fact, science -- and found that he had a tendency to detach from reality when he was in a particularly dark mood.)

"Oh, listeners, I'm so sorry," Cecil says, trying to feign normalcy, though he has trouble speaking as loud as he generally does. It's not that he can't, or that his throat hurts, or he's losing his voice; it's just that it takes so much willpower to speak at all, and there's not enough left over to be loud. "I must have fallen asleep at my desk. I'll have to stop drinking so much coffee before bed, it's really throwing my sleep schedule off! And now, back to our story on the disappearance of the Dog Park…"

... and Cecil sits at the table with Abby and Steve and Janice. He's over for dinner, and his family has struck up quite a lively conversation, one that he struggles to keep up with. It's not that he doesn't want to enjoy a cheerful meal; but the idea of trying to be happy at all makes him… angry, almost. It's a strange feeling that he doesn't have control over and can't describe. But still, he tries to pretend. For Janice. 

Abby and Steve exchange looks across the table. Cecil is being very calm, and sweet -- even to Steve. It's incredibly out of character, and while it's a welcome surprise, it's a little concerning. Steve doesn't like being made fun of, of course, but the rivalry between him and his brother in law is a reliable thing, like the sun rising, or the arrows and lines in the sky, or angels not existing. 

So to see such a prominent change - well, it's very strange, and almost a little concerning. Is Cecil alright? Has he been replaced by some sort of doppleganger? Is he sick? Or is Steve just going crazy?

The truth is that Cecil doesn't have enough energy to be rude or cold toward Steve, or even to acknowledge that he's there, because he's directing most of his willpower toward trying to ignore the itching in his fingertips, in the back of his head, under his skin. He's trying to ignore the urge cut, to hurt, to watch the blood well up from between thin, shallow lines on his hips, arms, ribs. 

He just wants to have a nice dinner, to spend time with his family and make his niece happy. But his thoughts keep returning to steel -- how nice it would be to scratch and scratch and scratch until you leave a scar, how nice it would be to have that regular stinging back, right on your hip bones where it belongs, surely Steve has razors in the medicine cabinet, you could just excuse yourself and do it, just for a few minutes -- but he's trying to stay clean. He's not sure why; no one knows about his scars at all, as far as he knows. 

His mind is only focused on two things: carrying on a cheerful conversation with Janice, and pretending that he doesn't want to grab his steak knife and drive it into his thigh, right then and there. 

Cecil is a good actor. You have to be, to make it in radio. You have to pretend to be unbiased, and you have to pretend not to be too upset when you deliver devastating news. So dinner goes completely normal, other than Cecil's mostly ignoring Steve. That, and the fact that he spends most of his visit digging his nails into his legs so hard they leave a mark on the fabric.

Cecil had quite a few more cuts and scratches when he woke up the next morning. 

and Cecil lies on his bed, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. He lies there fully clothed, too exhausted - mentally and physically - to get up and turn the fan off, or even get under the blankets. He's cold, almost shivering, but he just can't summon the willpower to move. Willpower. That seems to be his biggest obstacle, lately.

He closes his eyes, and his mind wanders toward topics that are far too dark, too romanticized despite the ugliness of reality. But he's tired and empty and everything feels wrong. And he doesn't care.

He's too tired to get up and retrieve his razors, even though he wants to. So he just thinks. They aren't thoughts out of hatred or anger toward those around him. He's not sure why he likes to have such dark thoughts. But they're just sad enough to make things feel a little closer to right.

What if -- he just -- drifted away, one night? No one would find him for a couple days, probably. His apartment is bugged by the Secret Police, of course, but the bathroom and the bedroom aren't… and he lived alone… and now one ever came to visit. Maybe a day or two would pass, with Intern Maureen taking over hosting the radio in his absence. She would be irritated, for sure. But then it would happen, and suddenly all that came with being the Voice of Night Vale would be passed to her.

And they would know.

Cecil's scars itch, the ones on his arms. It's a good substitute for pain, so he doesn't scratch them. He doesn't even want to move his arms, anyway.

Or maybe Carlos the Scientist would stop by some day, to ask a question about someone or some investigation. And Cecil wouldn't answer, and the door would be locked, but Carlos would know where the spare key was hidden -- Cecil has told him. He told him the first time the scientist came to visit, with the assurance that he was welcome any time of the day, or night, or the third section of time, v o i d. 

So Carlos would come in, calling Cecil's name, peering hesitantly around corners. He would make up his mind to wait in the living room, but the bedroom door would be open, and he would see a figure in there. Slowly,. he would make his way toward the room, where inside would be a body, pale and still and --

Abruptly Cecil coughs. He has a hair in his mouth. He pulls it out, but it's white, whiter than his hair and strangely fluffy. He flicks it off the bed, too exhausted to get up and throw it away, and continues thinking

Cecil wonders what his funeral is going to be like. Premature death, for him, has changed from an "if" to a "when". He knows it's only a matter of time before he breaks. "I'm going to love being dead," a voice in the back of his head murmurs. "No one ever bothers you when you're dead."

Funeral. Oh, Old Woman Josie will cry, and Abby and Steve will cry, and Carlos will cry, and Janice will cry buckets and buckets, and --

"Oh!" The thought is too painful. Not Janice. The thought of the others missing him is alright, almost comforting, but Janice is too young to lose someone so close. No, he couldn't --

Cecil's thoughts are interrupted by a presence suddenly manifesting itself in his bedroom.

"Ah!" he exclaims, and then, realizing it's only an ang-- er, not an angel, he snaps, "Erika, what are you doing in my room?" 

"It was shockingly difficult to get in here," says the Erika, brushing a feather off their shoulder. ("That must have been what was in my mouth," Cecil thinks. "Gross.") "The, how do you say, the energy, the vibe of the room -- the whole apartment, really -- was just so -- so dark, and thick, I had trouble getting in." 

"That's not the point," Cecil says, sitting up on top of the covers. "Why did you come in the first place?"

"Oh, Cecil," Erika says. "The energy you give off as The Voice of Night Vale is already so strong, and it's been so heavy and dark and sad lately. All of the angels in the area can feel it, and quite frankly it's incredibly upsetting."

"So? I'm depressed. I know. What do you want to do about it? What do you want me to do about it?"

"Well, Cecil, you need to do something. You're a mess --" Erika starts.

"You think I haven't noticed?" Cecil mutters under his breath.

" -- and you give off so much energy at such a high frequency that it's throwing all of the angels off. A good portion of them have been getting migraines because of it. And that shouldn't even be possible, because we don't have bodies."

Cecil takes a deep breath. "Look," he says, "I'm sorry you've been having trouble. That's seriously really frustrating. I get it. But I don't know what you want me to do. What's the point of you coming here?"

Erika's aura pulses a little thicker, a little darker. "We don't know. We just need you to fix it. It needs to stop. You're not healthy, and you're hurting the people around you. Especially us angels."

Cecil feels rage start to burn in his chest, the first real emotion he's felt in weeks. "I'm hurting other people?"

Erika nods their head. "As far as I know, no one has quite caught on to what's wrong with you. But the whole town knows that something about you is not okay. You need to stop."

Cecil burns hotter, and not just metaphorically. His tattoos are a more intense color, closer to red, and if Erika had touched them, they would have been burned. If they had a body. Cecil's energy grows and the Erika can feel the psychic heat. 

"You're right," he laughs, bitter and hysterical. The room around him seems to glow a furious purple-red, and Erika begins to be fearful. He is much more powerful than they thought. Much, much more powerful. "You're right. I'll just turn off my depression. I'll just get rid of it. I'll fix things. I'll fix everything. I --"

Suddenly all the energy in the room shuts off. It just goes out, quickly and thoroughly as a match being blown out. Cecil slumps against the headboard of the bed, exhausted and tired and feeling more hollow and alone than he can ever remember.

"Cecil --" Erika begins.

"Just go," he says quietly.

"You need to --"

He looks up, and while his body carries exhaustion and failure, his eyes hold a stubborn rage.

"Just go."

And Erika leaves.

Carlos picks up the phone on the second ring."Hello?"

"Hey, um, Carlos? It's Cecil."

Carlos smiles wide. "Cecil! It's good to hear from you. How are you?" He sits down in a folding chair, one next to his table in the lab, ready for the long, rambling chat he knows is coming.

"I'm okay. I mean, I'm good. I'm good!"

Carlos frowns and leans forward, putting his chin in his fist and his elbow on his knee. "Are you sure everything is okay? You sound really nervous."

There is a pause. "Well… um. I just wanted to say thank you. For everything."

Carlos begins to get nervous. "Cecil. Is everything okay?"

"No, yeah, it's alright, it's just… I'm leaving Night Vale. Goodbye, Carlos."

Cecil hangs up.

Carlos can't stop thinking about the phone call all day while he works. It was nice of him to call and say goodbye… but it's so upsetting that he's leaving. Carlos realizes with a pang of regret that he is going to miss Cecil Palmer. He's leaving so abruptly, too… and he sounded so nervous, and upset… But why is he leaving?

It occurs to Carlos that Cecil didn't tell him when he was leaving. But he sounded so nervous and overwhelmed on the phone… maybe he just has a lot to do. Carlos should probably ask someone else. Should he do it right now? He should probably wait a while, at least until the end of the workday. But his curiosity gets the better of him, so he cleans up the lab just a little before hurrying out the door.

Carlos thinks about how differently things could have gone for a long time, after that. Abby does, too, and even Steve. What if Carlos hadn't walked across the street to the family's apartment to ask? What if he had just phoned? What if Abby and Steve hadn't stayed home to take care of Janice, who was sick? What if the radio had been on, and they had heard that Intern Maureen was the one hosting the show today? 

What if Cecil had told Abby and Steve that he was leaving, too? What if Abby hadn't mentioned that Cecil came by, just to say that he loved them, and give Janice an old tape recorder, to tell her to use it wisely, and to give Steve a hug, for the first time since they'd met? What if they hadn't realized, hadn't put the details together and seen that something was wrong, something was so very wrong?

They didn't know.

But they left right then and there, just the three of them, trusting that Janice would be safe by herself, or that the Secret Police would keep an eye on her through the cameras they definitely had hidden throughout the house, and Abby sped the entire way to her brother's apartment. She didn't care if the Secret Police were going to stop her, but although they passed more than one van marked, "SECRET POLICE: You Can't See Us, Shh," no one stopped them.

The "what if?"s swirl through Carlos' head almost every day, and even more frequently after it happens. Could they have gotten to Cecil sooner? Or later? Could they have prevented it from happening? Could they have stopped him? Saved him?

And why didn't they notice sooner? Could they have gotten him help, let him know that he wasn't alone, that he was loved, that he wasn't a burden? That the only person he was hurting was himself? That the world was so much better with him in it, and that they needed him, needed him to stay alive?

The "what if?"s swirl through Carlos' head almost every day, but they are sharper and clearer and stronger at night, in the darkness when the air is stained with pain and fear and forgetting. The nightmares have gotten better since it happened, but all too often he finds himself back in Cecil's apartment. The only sound is his heart beating in his ears as he stands in the doorway, as Abby rushes to her brother's side, where he lay sprawled on the floor. Steve stands in front of him, panicked and flustering as he fumbles for his phone, nearly dropping it more than once, and begins to dial someone before remembering to shout for the Secret Police. Carlos is frozen, in shock and fear and some ugly sort of loss, which is ridiculous because he barely knows this man -- or knew? Is it knew, now? But then Abby's turning toward him from where she sits with her knees on the cold hardwood floor, saying something, and Carlos remembers that he is a scientist, and a scientist is always fine. Carlos isn't trained in biology, but he knows enough, and he is suddenly thrust, forced by horrible events that he should have foreseen, into checking vitals and doing what he can to save a man's -- a friend's -- life.

Sometimes the nightmare fades out, after that, and leaves things correct, as they were. Sometimes the dream goes on, including scenes he barely remembers in his waking hours, from being in the hospital with Cecil, scenes where he sits by a bedside for hours while its inhabitant isn't even awake, anyway, and he wonders why he's here, or if he even deserves to be here; moments holding Abby while she cries because Steve has had to go to work but she doesn't want to be alone, because she's just so absolutely terrified and ashamed that she let this happen; moments sitting with Janice because Cecil is finally awake, and even though Carlos wants nothing more than to be with him, Janice needs someone to be with her, because even though, as Cecil had said, "The Secret Police will keep a good eye on your children, and hardly ever take them," she was still young, and anyway sometimes the Secret Police did take children. Carlos dreams and remembers, so many moments where he was slowly yet swiftly brought into this family, because there was no one else.

Sometimes his nightmares change, forcing in memories that never happened -- scenes where they don't make it to the hospital; where they do, but Carlos has to watch as the beeping of the heart monitor slows and finally flatlines; where something, anything, everything goes wrong, and Carlos finds himself in a painful procession to a cemetery he's never seen before.

The nightmares almost always change, but every time he wakes, sometimes gasping, sometimes left in a cold dread, he finds his shaky fingers searching for his phone and clicking on Cecil's number, just to hear his voice.

Cecil always picks up, no matter the hour. Insomnia still plagues him, and if he's not already awake he wakes easily enough that the phone going off usually does the trick. Just because you've made it in and out of the hospital, Cecil has learned, doesn't mean you're fixed. He still feels horrible. He still drifts out of reality, falls asleep while still conscious, sometimes. Especially when he talks to his therapist, he notices. Trying to understand, to be more in touch with his surroundings, just makes his mind want to slip away even more. But he holds on.

Cecil still feels horrible. He still cuts, sometimes. He still sits in the dark and wishes he could cry, wishes he was awake enough to feel any sort of emotion, even sadness. But he's not alone. And slowly, he's beginning to get his life back, to get his feelings back, to get his body back. 

Cecil always picks up, because he knows how horrible it is to sit alone in the dark, panicked and upset and angry and scared and despairing. No one should ever have to go through that. So he picks up every night that Carlos calls, and he just talks. He talks about anything and everything and nothing, just to let Carlos know it's okay, he's still here, he's still holding on, and he's not going anywhere. He talks until Carlos falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry my friends


End file.
